


the order of the house

by qanterqueen



Category: The Adventure Zone (Podcast)
Genre: go read that shit rn because its Perfect for spooky month and i love it So Much, i put on old nordic music and wrote this lmao, inspired by the absolute love of my lifes fic called the inbetween, you kinda wont understand this unless youve read the inbetween but yknow its still a good time
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-26
Updated: 2018-10-26
Packaged: 2019-08-07 23:41:00
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,378
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16418273
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/qanterqueen/pseuds/qanterqueen
Summary: There is an unofficial order of rules in the house by all its residents, be them voluntary or involuntary permanent guests.





	the order of the house

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [The Inbetween](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14240685) by [Zoodan21](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zoodan21/pseuds/Zoodan21). 



> LADS I just got my laptop charger and now i'm Back to writing! so to flex these writin fingers i figured i'd write something based off of my wife's fic The Inbetween (https://archiveofourown.org/works/14240685?view_full_work=true). I DEFINITELY recommend you read that before this (but also like just in general), but whatever floats your boat I guess.

There is an unofficial order of rules in the house by all its residents, be them voluntary or involuntary permanent guests.

First: you do not interact with anyone.

The most recent resident has broken this rule many times recently. He knows he’s in trouble, and he knows he will be punished. Perhaps not by a presence, but by life itself; balance for the sake of the universe. What is done wrongly will be punished rightly-- he knows this. But he is also dead, and has already suffered fates much worse than his own death, and so he fears little. He has lived and died through all of his days so far. He is stronger than he knows.

He is aware of the consequences. But he is also lonely. He is starving. Hunger gnaws at whatever parts of him it can find-- his mind, his heart, his soul. He is full to the brim of starving. It consumes him most days, attacking whatever is left of him at the end of each day mercilessly. 

A word slipping between his lips is like a feast he could not ever place value on. A word back, a reply, is a meal fit for men much worthier than him.

He was careful at first. He played with this rule, toyed with its edges, wanted to know how far he could push it. 

Whispers. Lights. The television. Appearances. 

Each interaction drained him, curled his blood like sour milk, and dripped slowly in his stomach like burning acid. Appearing as an apparition was more than he could handle sometimes, and he’d have to retreat in fatigue so quickly. Yet he could never be satisfied-- each interaction was like a fire in his chest, growing and growing until it would spill out of his mouth and drip from his chin. It burned like hell, but God was it beautiful.

The second rule: there was no love.

He had never thought he’d ever find a true definition or meaning to this. When he was alive, he knew this to be true-- that love was not an  _ option _ , or a thing to do. It existed, it  _ was _ , and it could never be stopped. Love was what powered all, be it love for something wonderful or something foul. Love was a state of being. It was a state of life.

Which is probably why there was no love in this house.

The air was gray, and he was only grateful that he didn’t need to breathe it in. The walls were imposing and made one feel so small in the universe-- there was no such thing as a sense of self. The world no longer existed outside of those walls-- and inside those walls was nothing short of hell.

No one smiled. No one laughed. There was no reason to. He felt no compassion, no pity, no sympathy for those locked in the house within him. He couldn’t, as he had reserved all feelings for himself. Feelings were such easy things to forget when all that could be felt was pain, and so he had to keep to himself. He had to stay within his own mind, to focus on himself, or else he would disappear within those walls. 

There was no love in that house. It was a world without purpose.

Which is why when Kravitz met Taako, all he could feel was an ache where his heart used to be.

The third rule: “you” do not exist.

Kravitz was not a shadow. Kravitz was not a man, he was not a dead man, he was not a resident of the house-- Kravitz was not anything. 

Kravitz was a dying memory in the minds of others so far away. Untouchable, unseen-- people, real  _ people _ , outside in the real world (if it even existed anymore). They once knew him. They once saw a man, full of love and laughter and life, and they once loved him as much as he loved them. They had missed them. Maybe they had even mourned.

But that was against the rules in the house. Kravitz had died. He was fading to everyone, even himself-- all that knew him resided in the walls in that house, and even they could not acknowledge him.  _ Kravitz _ was a memory that was being snuffed out in everything. 

Those who once remembered him-- did they remember his name? Had they ever remembered it?

Kravitz was not dead, nor was he alive, because he  _ wasn’t _ . 

Some things  _ are _ , like love. Love is. Love persists; love lives in the darkest corners and in the brightest spots because it  _ is _ . It is effortless, constant, and all-encompassing. 

Love  _ is _ . Kravitz  _ isn’t _ .

The fourth rule: nothing is free. 

He had heard the screams for so long. The shrieks in the dead of night, jolting his consciousness to be aware. A scream that builds up from behind him, as if a chin rests on his shoulder and if he turned his head he could see wide open eyes and a horrified shriek. Sometimes he does turn, because his mind makes him-- it crafts the image of  _ someone _ , their teeth rotten, their mouth making wrinkles and creases in their face, their eyes wide and veined with red. The veins look like worms, crawling and never stopping, squirming beneath the hazy film over the person's’ eyes.

There is never anyone there. Never anyone to see or touch or feel. They are gone before Kravitz can blink.

They are in anguish. Everyone is, even him, though he’d given up screaming. He was far too tired.

They are horrified. They are disgusted. They are frightened beyond the ability to do anything except shriek, their souls locked in an eternal state of shock.

Everyone in that house is given a promise from the moment they step foot into the doorway: you are owned, and you are never finished. There will always be some part of you kept in the world so you may be toyed with mercilessly. You are owned by a man who wishes nothing more than to hear you scream and scream and scream and scream.

Kravitz has not given this man the satisfaction to hear him scream lately.

He has given everything else to this man. His life. The love within him. His body. His legs and his arms and his chest and his fingers and his ears. His eyes. God, his eyes, how they had burned and bled and bled and bled. His blood, his heart-- still beating, somewhere, but gone. It no longer belongs to Kravitz; it belongs to this man. So does everything else. It is such an overwhelming and crushing thought that Kravitz sometimes cannot remember what his life had been like. His body now-- his nose and his face and his chest-- it’s all a charade. It’s a phantom pain that will never stop. It’s a construct that only he can imagine.

It’s pathetic. Most of the other residents don’t imagine a body. They don’t try to be seen. They have given up. Kravitz knows there is no future for him. He knows there is no use in being angry at his unjust fate. There is no use in being angry at John. There is no use in having a sense of self, or keeping his name, or imagining a body.

That is the fifth rule: this is the final setting. There is nothing more, nothing less, and nothing better. There is no use in trying.

One day, Kravitz touches Taako. 

It’s a comforting gesture. Taako had been crying-- he was finally starting to understand the rules of the house, just a little bit. Kravitz had been trying to talk the best he could, but the weight of the walls was always so much. Kravitz was trying to  _ be _ \-- trying to smile, to joke, to make Taako feel better. None of this was allowed, not by any mile.

When he touches Taako’s hand, it almost makes him feel nauseous. It’s cold, and clammy, and not comfortable. It’s like having something pass through him, hesitating as if he’s a dense fog and Taako is a beacon of light trying to cut through.

But it’s just enough to make Kravitz feel whole again, just for a moment, and that’s all he needs.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  



End file.
